


Put Your Emptiness To Melody

by Thebonemoose



Series: Magnus and Lukas (beans and books, babey!) [8]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alcohol, Alleyway Makeout Session, Alternate Universe, Feelings Realization, Getting Together, Halloween, Jon and Georgie were in a band in Uni, Jonathan Sim's Singing, Karaoke, Karl Marx (mentioned), Martin Blackwood's Poetry, Martin plays the piano, Matchmaking, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Oblivious Jonathan Sims, Open Mic Night, The Romantic Power of Hozier's Music, brief angst, coffee shop/bookstore au, no beta we die like archive assistants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23902303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thebonemoose/pseuds/Thebonemoose
Summary: Tim somehow convinces the higher-ups to host an Open Mic Night.There is also a Halloween Party, and eventually, a piano.
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Georgie Barker & Jonathan Sims, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood & Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Sasha James & Tim Stoker, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Series: Magnus and Lukas (beans and books, babey!) [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1688632
Comments: 79
Kudos: 249





	Put Your Emptiness To Melody

**Author's Note:**

> Boy oh boy, you guys are going to have some feelings about this one. 
> 
> Title is from To Noise Making by Hozier, and the idea for the series comes from my tma chat on discord. How do you do, fellow kids.

It had been Tim’s idea, _of course_. It was a terrible idea, so _obviously_ it had to be Tim’s idea. 

Jon sighed. 

A few weeks ago, Tim had danced (literally _danced_ ) into the coffee shop, stopped directly in front of Jon, and produced a flyer with an over-the-top flourish. 

“Feast your eyes, Jonny-boy,” Tim said, grinning. 

Jon reluctantly grabbed the flyer and peered down at it with narrowed eyes. 

“What the hell is this?” Jon had asked, and Tim had only smirked. 

“James has authorized my brilliant idea of having an open mic night at the coffee shop. Twice a month, performers, musicians, and poets will flock to our st-- well, we still have to buy the stage, but once we have it? They will flock to it, and then our humble joint coffee shop/bookstore will become even more popular, and who knows? Maybe I’ll get rich and famous.”

Jon handed the flyer back. “Tim, you’re an idiot.”

Tim tutted. “You’re just jealous of my genius. All the greats were unappreciated in their time, Jon!” he called as he walked away. 

Jon felt a headache coming on. 

“That’s exciting,” Martin had remarked cheerfully, coming up to Jon’s side. 

“Depends on who you ask,” Jon grumbled. Martin rolled his eyes. 

“Whatever, spoilsport,” he’d said fondly, before leaving to finish his task.

Some deep, buried part of Jon wanted badly to reach out for Martin, but he did not. He just watched Martin work, humming quietly to himself, and wondered why he’d had such a thought in the first place. 

All of that led to Jon’s current predicament, i.e., being forced to help his meddlesome coworkers set up the stage in the coffee shop. It had taken some creative rearranging (Melanie’s expert tetris skills had come in handy), but the tables had eventually been moved to where there was clear access to the stage.

Jon slumped over the counter, his head in his hands. He wasn’t particularly _trying_ to be a downer, but he also wasn’t trying _not to be_.

Daisy nudged him with her elbow. “Grumpy,” she accused. 

He did not bother to respond. She nudged him again. 

She grinned. “Only a few hours to go, Jon. Are you going to frown the whole time?”

“Yes, I rather think I will,” he told her darkly, and she laughed. 

“I hear Martin’s going to read an original poem,” Daisy said casually. 

Jon glanced over at her. She raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know he wrote poems,” Jon replied, his tone even. 

Daisy just shrugged and smirked to herself. Annoyingly. 

The new few hours passed a bit too quickly for Jon’s liking, and soon enough Tim was onstage and thanking everyone for coming. He was very charming and charismatic, and Jon saw firsthand the effect that he had on their patrons. 

“Alright, I’ll shut up so we can all watch what we came here for, yeah?” Tim asked, and was met with applause. 

“I wonder what it’s like being good at everything,” Melanie snarked from Jon’s left, and he snorted. 

Georgie elbowed her girlfriend, and Melanie used it as an opportunity to pull Georgie closer and put her arm around her. Jon stifled a laugh at Georgie’s love-struck expression. Those two were good together. 

The first performers were a decent-enough band comprised of a few college-aged kids who received significant applause, which was more than they expected judging by the giddy expression on the frontwoman’s face. 

A few more performers came and went, though none that Jon remembered with any clarity. Then Tim came back onstage and announced Martin’s name, and Jon caught sight of Martin on the other side of the shop, walking nervously to the stage. He stuttered out a greeting and the name of his poem, and then began.

“The way silvery strands catch the light/ Looks just like spiderwebs/Those dark eyes/ A fleeting smile/ What I wouldn’t give to have you on my side/ But you’re not on my side, are you?/ You are the spider/ and I am ensnared/ In your web.” He thanked the audience as they clapped, and rushed off stage. 

It was then that Jon noticed several audience members turning back to look in his direction. He turned to glance behind him, but could not find what they were looking at. 

Was it him? Was this one of those things Georgie had been telling him about? He frowned, and heard a collective groan of frustration from the audience. 

Jon caught sight of Martin across the coffee shop, flushed and pointedly avoiding Jon’s gaze. Jon turned to Georgie. “Am I missing something? I don’t really… _get_ poetry. Why was everyone looking at me?”

Georgie stepped over to him and hugged him. “Shh.. It’s okay.”

“Georgie, what is this?”

Georgie played dumb. “It’s a hug, Jon.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, that much is clear. What I _mean_ is why?”

“Because you have no idea, and I cannot be the one to tell you right now.”

Jon huffed as Georgie let him go, and tucked a loose gray strand of hair behind his ear. She patted his cheek, then returned to Melanie. 

Jon looked to Daisy, intent on asking what the hell all of that was, but she seemed a bit preoccupied with smirking flirtatiously at Basira. Better to leave them alone, he figured. 

Several more performers went up, and then Georgie was tugging on Jon’s arm and leading him towards the stage. “We’re next, Jon, come on,” she said, and Jon gawked. 

“Georgie, what the hell did you do?” he demanded. 

Georgie smiled back at him. “I signed us up, I’m on guitar and you’re singing. Now let’s go!” she said, and pushed him on stage. 

Jon exhaled carefully, then schooled his features. “For the record, I am very mad at you right now, but I am setting it aside because I refuse to embarrass myself in front of all these people,” he told her, and she just nodded and rolled her eyes. 

He caught sight of Martin in the crowd, who had come to stand near Melanie, towards the front. As he adjusted the microphone to his height, Jon heard Martin lean in close to Melanie and ask “Jon can sing?”

Melanie nodded. “He and Georgie were in a band in Uni,” she said, and Martin’s eyes widened. 

“Jon,” Georgie called. “We’re playing Fever.”

Jon was still mad at Georgie, but he couldn’t fault her song choice. 

She began to play, and Jon allowed himself to relax into the music. It brought back memories of all of the hours they would spend in their youth, just laughing and making music. 

Jon didn’t try to stifle the smile that stretched across his lips as he began to sing. 

His voice was a bit rusty, but luckily the song suited a more bluesy, dark tone. 

“What a lovely way to burn,” Jon sang as the song came to a close. He caught Martin’s eye, and noticed he looked tense. His face was flushed, and his eyes were wide and manic. He looked a bit like he was going to pop a vein, actually. His hands were clenched tight by his sides. He was staring at Jon like he was personally responsible for murdering every single one of his dreams. 

He knew he hadn’t sang in a while, but he had no idea he sounded _that_ bad.

He and Georgie left the stage to a satisfying amount of applause, and Tim came up to them with a wide grin on his face. “Boss! I had no idea you had it in you,” he said, pleased. He congratulated them both on a great performance, and Georgie thanked him. 

Jon, however, was busy trying to find Martin in the crowd. He had wandered off sometime after Georgie and Jon returned to the crowd. 

“I think Martin went in the bookstore,” Tim said knowingly. 

Jon shrugged nonchalantly. “I don’t see what that has to do with me,” he said.

Daisy came up behind him. “You’re not fooling anybody, Sinatra.”

He huffed. “Fine. I’m going to go talk to Martin,” he announced, and was met with various cheers and affirmations from his friends. Nosy gossips, the lot of them. Busybodies and meddlers, all. 

He found Martin hidden behind a bookshelf, leaning against it and drinking from a flask. 

“You brought alcohol to an open mic night?” Jon asked, his brows furrowed. 

Martin squeaked and jumped, then tried unsuccessfully to hide the flask behind him. He seemed to realize this was obvious, and aborted the movement halfway in. 

“Er, no. Nikola gave it to me,” Martin replied, holding it out for Jon to see the circus-themed design on the flask. 

“And you’re drinking that? Martin, it could be poisoned!” Jon cried, and slapped it out of his hand, spilling liquor on the carpet. 

Martin stared at his now-empty hand, then looked to the open flask on the ground. “You,” he said, pointing to Jon, “owe me a drink.” He crouched down and took a seat on the carpet, leaning his back against the bookshelf. 

Jon somewhat awkwardly followed suit. “Uh… Sorry,” he said lamely. Martin chuckled and shrugged. 

“It’s alright,” Martin said. Jon didn’t know what to say next, so he stayed silent. 

“I didn’t know you could sing,” Martin said suddenly, looking at some spot beside Jon’s head. 

“Oh, yes, well… It’s been a while. I used to sing quite often,” Jon told him, and tried to think of a way to ask Martin if he liked the performance without actually saying it. 

It turned out he didn’t need to, though. Martin came through on his own. “I liked it. You should sing more.”

Jon could not reply, on account of the fact that he was suddenly very breathless, so he just nodded.

“Well, I’m going to go find Sasha,” Martin said suddenly, his face flushed. He was out of sight before Jon got the chance to reply, but he thought he heard Martin mutter something that sounded like “-hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my fucking life,” and then, “How dare he, I’m suing for emotional damages.”

Jon felt a great deal more confused than he had been before talking to Martin. 

Melanie sidled up beside Martin at the counter and began tidying up the cups. 

Jon and Martin caught each other’s eye, wearing identical looks of confusion. 

“Melanie,” Jon asked. “What are you doing here?”

Melanie did not look over at him as she answered. “I’m going to work here now. The book store was nice, but I want to be around people, and I want to see Helen more often. Plus, I got tired of watching Tim and Sasha dance around each other constantly.”

Daisy snorted. “And you thought it would be any better here?” she questioned. 

Melanie laughed.

Jon looked over at Martin, confusion clear on his face, and Martin had to look away. He could feel himself blushing, and was trying very hard not to appear as flustered as he felt. 

“By the way, did you guys get Elias’ text about Halloween tomorrow?” Melanie asked.

Jon shook his head. “What text?” 

“Elias is insisting we all dress up for the Halloween thing tomorrow,” Martin explained, and Jon frowned.

“I will not be doing that,” Jon stated plainly, and Martin did not miss the look that Melanie sent to Daisy. 

“It’s bad enough we have to work on Halloween, I think it’s ridiculous to have to dress up on top of that,” Melanie remarked after a moment. 

“So you won’t be dressing up?” Martin asked. 

Melanie shook her head. “Oh, I’ll be dressing up, alright. Just because it’s ridiculous for him to ask us to dress up doesn’t mean that I’m not going to do it,” she replied. 

And dress up she did. 

When Martin walked into the coffee shop on Halloween he stopped dead in his tracks. The entire store had been decorated with spider webs, skeletons, and fake severed body parts. The lighting was dim and moody, and apparently someone had shelled out the funds for a fog machine, judging by the layer of it that flowed over the floor. 

Unless it was just Peter and his vape pen, of course. 

Martin adjusted his fake beard (his costume was Walt Whitman, and he did not hesitate to go all out) and continued into the shop. 

Tim ran up and greeted him, wearing a cowboy costume, complete with chaps and spurs. He looked Martin up and down and nodded approvingly. “Nice Karl Marx costume, Martin! Very convincing,” he said, impressed. 

“Oh, um, I’m not Karl Marx? I’m Walt Whitman,” Martin explained. 

Tim took a second look, frowning. “I don’t really see it, to be honest,” he said, and shrugged apologetically. 

“Anyways, come see everyone’s costumes! You’re going to lose your mind when you see the Admiral,” Tim said, and grabbed Martin’s arm. 

Martin did lose his mind when he saw the Admiral. Georgie had dressed him like an actual admiral, complete with a tiny, white hat. “Oh, Georgie, I love it!” Martin cried, and Georgie, (who was dressed like a ghost,) just smiled graciously and accepted his praise. 

Daisy looked a bit like a lumberjack and a bit like a werewolf, and whenever anyone asked which one she was, she just shrugged and chewed on a toothpick. Basira claimed to be “a nerd”.

“You don’t look like a nerd, you just look like Sasha,” Melanie had commented. 

Basira adjusted her fake glasses and shrugged. “If the shoe fits,” she said easily, and Sasha pouted. 

“Sasha, who are you dressed as?” Martin asked in the hopes of diffusing any potential tension. 

Sasha hesitated. Tim patted her arm. “Marie Curie,” she mumbled. 

“Sasha, I’ve known you for months now and this is the first time I actually realized how big of a nerd you were, so… It could be worse?” Melanie said, shrugging. 

Sasha shook her head. “It’s fine, it’s…. Accurate.”

“I like your Lady Justice costume, Melanie,” Jon said, and Martin noticed for the first time that he wasn’t wearing a costume. 

She nodded at him. “Thanks, Jon.”

Jon pointed to a name tag sticker on his chest. “Actually, it’s ‘John’.”

Melanie stared at him. She slowly began to shake her head. 

Jon fidgeted. “Get it? I’m-- I’m dressed as John. With an H.”

Nobody else spoke. 

Jon began to look very worried. Martin was pretty sure he saw beads of sweat appear on his forehead. 

“Jon.”

Jon swallowed thickly. “Y- ahem, Yes, Melanie?”

Melanie’s face was stony. “I’m going to kill you.”

Georgie grimaced and took her girlfriend by the arm. “OH-kay, so, to prevent a crime, We’re going to go elsewhere and then everything will be fine, right guys?” she asked cheerfully, and a half-hearted chorus of affirmations rose up as she led Melanie away.

Daisy turned to Martin. “You make a convincing Karl Marx,” she said appreciatively. Basira nodded in agreement.

“It’s not-- ugh, whatever. Thank you,” he replied.

“You sure it’s not Karl Marx?” Sasha asked, frowning. 

Martin made a split second decision to roll with the punches for once. “Nope! You got me,” he said. “You have nothing to lose but your chains,” he added. 

Daisy snorted into her plastic cup. 

After that, Tim left to go mingle with other party-goers (meaning that he was going to talk to people he _didn’t_ work with for once) and Sasha followed after. Daisy and Basira snuck away to some dark corner somewhere to (hopefully) address the weird romantic tension between them, leaving Martin and Jon standing awkwardly all by themselves. 

Jon shifted his weight from foot to foot and stared into his drink. 

“It’s not Karl Marx,” he stated. 

Martin turned to him, a question on his lips. 

Jon continued before he could ask. “It’s Walt Whitman.”

A grin spread on Martin’s face. “Yes! How could you tell?”

Jon shrugged. “You’re both poets,” he offered. “Plus, as anti-capitalist as, well, _all of us_ here are, it did not seem like you would make a Halloween costume out of it,” he added. 

Martin chuckled. “Alright, yeah, fair enough,” he replied. Martin wanted to look away from Jon. Truly, he did. He wanted to look away before he did something crazy, like tell Jon he was in love with him, or kiss him. 

_Speaking of kissing…. NO._ Martin forced his attention away from Jon’s (admittedly nice) lips, and down to the cup of liquid in Jon’s hands. 

“Um! Drinks?” Martin said, the very picture of eloquence and grace. 

Jon just furrowed his eyebrows and pointed to the refreshments table. 

Martin muttered a rushed ‘thank you’ and nearly ran to the table. Annabelle was there, carefully removing plastic wrap from a punch bowl full of dark liquid. 

“Oh, what’s that?” Martin asked, and Annabelle looked up at him, beaming. 

“It’s Spider Juice!” she answered cheerfully. 

Martin froze, a polite smile still stuck on his face. “Ah!” he said, because it was all he could manage. 

Annabelle did not seem fazed. Luckily, Nikola came along and whisked Annabelle away, so Martin didn’t have to politely drink whatever cursed concoction Annabelle brought to the party. 

He made himself a screwdriver instead, and drank greedily. 

Tim stood by the karaoke machine, more than a little tipsy. “Alright, Sasha! I’m going to sing a song, and it’s going to be super good. Sound like a plan?” he asked, grinning, and Sasha laughed at him 

Rude. But understandable. 

He took a step forward, but felt a hand on his shoulder. The hand whirled him around until he was face-to-face with its owner. 

“Annabelle!” Tim exclaimed. 

“Let’s have a rendezvous, Timmy dear,” she said, and looped her arm around his, then led him to a more secluded area. Tim turned back to Sasha, who was staring after him with a confused expression. 

“Don’t worry, Tim, this won’t take long. We need to talk about Martin.”

“Martin?” Tim asked. “I love Martin. He’s the best.”

“Quite. I’ve recently come into a bit of prudent information regarding the man in question.”

“Oh my god, your brain is working so fast right now,” Tim said, before he could stop himself. 

Annabelle raised her eyebrows. “My brain is always working this fast.”

Tim’s jaw dropped. “Annabelle! I didn’t know you were a genius!” 

She sighed. “You are very stupid. Listen to me, Timothy. Our dear Mr. Blackwood plays the piano, alright? I am going to persuade Peter Lukas to purchase a piano for the bookstore. Martin will then play that piano, because he won’t be able to resist. Jon is going to realize that Martin has hidden talents, therefore viewing him in a new light, therefore prompting him to realize that he has feelings for Martin.”

Tim only understood about half of that, but he decided not to tell her. “I love it. You’re incredible. How are you going to convince Peter Lukas to buy a piano?”

Annabelle smiled condescendingly and patted his cheek. “Don’t you worry about that, baby. I’ve got it all figured out,” she told him, then walked off.

“Hm. Alright.” Tim returned to Sasha. 

“What was that about?” She asked, motioning towards Annabelle. 

“She’s going to buy Martin a piano so Jon will fall in love with him.”

Sasha frowned. “What?”

Tim shrugged helplessly.“I don’t know, it made sense when she explained it. Anyways, I’ve decided it’s Karaoke Time!” he shouted. Sasha laughed, and he bounded up to the karaoke machine. He scrolled through the options for a bit, then decided. 

Sasha groaned when she saw his song choice. “Really, Tim? This song sucks,” she laughed. 

“You’re killing me, Sasha! Mark my words, you’re going to love this song by the time I’m done, alright?” He said, winking.

Sasha rolled her eyes, and Tim began to sing. 

The song was Teenage Dirtbag, which Tim himself had no strong feelings about other than he felt like singing it at that moment. Watching Sasha moan and groan as he sang it was thoroughly entertaining, though, and there were several instances when he couldn’t finish a phrase because he was laughing so hard at her exaggerated expressions. 

Her body language changed about halfway through the song, however. She straightened, and frowned. Then she looked up at Tim with wide eyes, and Tim almost stuttered with the weight of her eyes on him. 

He finished out the song and walked towards Sasha, still holding her gaze. 

“Let’s go outside,” she said, and grabbed his hand. She pulled him into the alley beside the shop. 

“Not that I’m complaining, but wha--” before he could finish his sentence, Sasha pushed him against the wall and kissed him deeply.

When they parted, Sasha was breathing heavy, her pupils wide. She was staring at Tim like he was a puzzle she had just solved, a question that she had finally, _finally_ answered. 

“Sasha,” he said, their faces still only centimeters apart. 

“I have a confession to make,” she whispered, and Tim’s eyes met hers. He swallowed thickly. 

Sasha exhaled, a bit shaky. “I have feelings for you, Tim.” Her tone was decisive, and her chin was tilted upwards, her confidence radiating outwards even as she bared her soul. 

Tim was frozen. All he could do was stare at this person, his best friend who he loved, and who was offering him everything he wanted on a silver platter. 

Her bravado seemed to be slipping the longer Tim stayed silent. She swallowed, and bit her lip. Tim’s eyes were still wide in shock. 

Sasha opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Tim rushed forward, grabbing her face in his hands and kissing her. 

When Tim pulled away, breathless, Sasha was staring up at him, her eyes bright. “Do you want to get out of here?” he panted, and Sasha nodded eagerly, then grabbed his hand. 

They went back inside just long enough to grab their things and mutter a poor excuse, and then they were alone in the night, their hands clasped between them.

Tim couldn’t look away from her. She was electric and captivating, and Tim was drawn to her like she was magnetic. 

She was Sasha, and he was in love with her. 

“What’s going on here?” Martin asked Tim as he watched Breekon and Hope unwrap a beautiful piano in the middle of the bookstore. It had been a few days since the Halloween party, and Martin was not expecting a delivery this significant on a random weekday. 

“Lukas has purchased a piano for the store,” Tim said simply. Martin saw him make eye contact with Annabelle Cane, who grinned.

He turned back to the piano. “This is an incredible instrument,” Martin said a bit breathlessly, and Tim clapped a hand on his shoulder. Martin itched to go over there and play something, but he felt self-conscious in front of all his coworkers and the customers. Plus, he had no idea if Peter Lukas would even allow him to.

“Go ahead, Martin, play something,” Annabelle said with a grin, and Martin looked back to the piano, calling out to him. He flexed his fingers. 

“Alright. Alright, I will,” he agreed, and couldn’t contain his grin as he approached the piano. “But doesn’t it need to be tuned?” Martin asked, turning to Breekon and Hope.

They looked to Annabelle, who met them with a ferocious and threatening stare. “Nope,” they said in unison, turning back to Martin. 

Well. That was good enough, right?

So Martin sat at the bench, and lightly danced his fingertips over the keys. He hadn’t played in so long. His heartbeat quickened, and he felt giddy with excitement. Martin began to play. 

The only song he still knew by heart was Erik Satie’s Gymnopédie No. 1, which always reminded him of rainy days. He glanced out the window, at the droplets of rain coming down in a steady, comforting sheet. It was fitting. 

He played, and the atmosphere in the store settled around him like a blanket, comforting and quiet and peaceful. He could hear the hum of fluorescent lights, the sound of rain on the street outside, and the quiet chatter of shop patrons and his coworkers. Martin’s eyes slid shut, and he let himself become preoccupied with the music and the music alone.

When the song had finished and its final note had rung out, Martin opened his eyes and stood, stepping away from the piano. He turned back to Tim, who was furiously wiping at his eyes. 

“Tim, are you crying?” he asked, feeling a bit guilty. 

Tim nodded, and stopped pretending otherwise. He just opened his arms to Martin, who stepped forward and hugged him. Annabelle was looking at him with unveiled approval, which Martin had no idea what to do with. 

And Jon…

Jon, who was still behind the coffee shop counter, was looking at him with his eyes wide, his mouth slightly open. His hands still held the mug he had been drying, although they were still. 

Martin felt like he should say something, or acknowledge his playing, but then Tim pulled away, still sniffling, and said “Martin, that was beautiful!”

Martin tabled whatever half-formed sentiment he had almost said to Jon, and diverted his energy to humbly declining the compliments and praise that Tim would not stop lavishing upon him. 

When he looked back at Jon, Jon had still not looked away. 

Jon was struggling. 

He knew, somewhat vaguely, _why_ he was struggling. But he did not know why that thing was causing him to struggle. 

Alright, that was too convoluted. 

It was Martin. He was struggling because of Martin. 

The shop had been particularly slow of late, and every time it was, Martin would gleefully bound to the piano and play to his heart’s delight. Jon didn’t mind the music-- Martin was a good player, and the songs were always relaxing and peaceful, but… Well. 

Every time Jon would look over and see Martin playing, his pulse would increase, and his mouth would become suddenly dry, and Jon would have to fight the almost uncontrollable urge to run over to Martin, and... And--

_Something._

Jon wasn’t sure yet. But the point was that Martin was _distracting_. He was distracting, and Jon was struggling. 

Once, Jon had been so preoccupied with watching Martin play that he messed up a drink order. 

Which he had _never_ done before. It was practically unheard of. 

And even worse, both Melanie and Tim had seen him do it. They teased him relentlessly for it, which was aggravating. 

Today, though, Jon was determined to not get distracted. He would stick to his work, and Martin could play the piano if he so chose, and everything would be fine. Tim and Melanie were _not_ going to get to him. 

“Hey, Jon, why don’t you and Martin play something together? You could sing and he could play,” Tim suggested, sitting on the counter. Melanie nodded eagerly. 

_Well, so much for that._

“That,” Georgie said, “Is a great idea.” She emerged dramatically from the break room. Jon hadn’t even known she was in there. 

Martin had heard them talking and approached, wringing his hands. “Well, I mean… Only if Jon wants to,” Martin said. 

Melanie, Tim, Georgie, and Martin all turned to Jon. 

He swallowed. “Er… Alright,” he said, and Tim, Melanie, and Georgie all grinned widely. When Jon looked at Martin, he saw him smiling softly, avoiding Jon’s eye. 

Jon followed Martin to the piano, and Martin settled in easily. “I was thinking of playing Cherry Wine by Hozier, do you know it?”

A quick google search confirmed that yes, he did, and with the lyrics pulled up, Jon had no trouble recalling the melody. 

Martin began to play, and Jon had to focus on not losing all of his air at once. 

“Her eyes and words are so icy, oh, but she burns, like rum on a fire,” Jon sang, his eyes glued to Martin. Martin kept his eyes mostly on the keys, but every so often he would look up at Jon, and Jon was altogether certain he could live in those moments forever.

Jon ignored the lyrics on his phone entirely, not even bothering to double-check if he was singing the right verses. He could not look away from Martin, his posture relaxed, completely in his comfort zone. 

The song was brighter on the piano, less mournful somehow, although the subject matter was as dark as ever.

Jon couldn’t deny there was something beautiful about it, even so. It made him want to lean in close to Martin, to look into his eyes, down to his lips, and…

Jon swallowed. “Her fight and fury is fiery, oh but she loves, like sleep to the freezing,” he sang. He finished out the last few verses and the chorus, and Martin left his finger on the last key, letting it ring into the open space of the shop. 

Martin looked up at him then, and Jon was fairly certain that was what heart failure felt like. 

But Martin did not look away, and Jon did not look away, even as silence fell, even as he heard Tim and Georgie whisper quietly to each other, even as the artificial shutter sound of a smartphone camera clicked behind them. 

Jon just kept looking at Martin, because looking at Martin was all he really wanted to do. He wanted to look at Martin, and be near Martin, and make Martin laugh. Because he loved Martin, and that’s what you do with people you love. 

And then Jon felt quite a bit like he had been stabbed in the gut, which made looking at Martin a good deal more difficult, and very suddenly indeed he couldn’t breath. He stammered some excuse about going to get some air and nearly stumbled out of the coffee shop, inhaling frantically. 

He leaned against the wall and slid to his knees, his head thunking against the stone. 

Jon was in love with Martin. Jon had romantic feelings for Martin, and he was in love with him. 

God, he wanted a cigarette. 

He closed his eyes and focused on breathing, letting the cool air rush in and out of his lungs. He pictured oxygen as it moved from his lungs into his bloodstream, and tried to recall the exact functions of the various systems of his body. 

He felt calmer, afterwards, but not nearly brave enough to go back inside. So he stayed out, and watched the blue sky turn black. He shivered, and Jon scolded himself for not remembering to grab a jacket before dashing out to have an epiphany. 

Then Jon heard the shop door ding, and out stepped Martin, illuminated by the yellow lights of the coffee shop. 

Jon’s heart clenched. 

Martin looked over, and his face brightened when his eyes fell on Jon. “Hey,” he said, stepping closer. 

“Hey,” Jon said weakly. 

“Are you alright? You ran out kind of quick,” Martin said lightly. 

Jon swallowed thickly. “Yes, I… I wasn’t feeling too well. But I’m alright,” he replied, and was caught between avoiding Martin’s gaze and never looking away from him. He settled on looking at Martin with what he was fairly certain was a convincing impression of a deer-in-the-headlights. 

Martin accepted this easily enough. “Okay. Well, just… Let me know if there’s anything I can do, yeah?” Martin asked, and Jon nodded. 

Then Jon shivered. Martin’s eyes drifted down, and his eyebrows furrowed.

“You didn’t bring your jacket? Jon, it’s freezing out here!” Martin exclaimed, and quickly shrugged off his coat and wrapped it around Jon. 

Jon tried to protest, but Martin’s jacket was warm and cozy, and it smelled like him, and Martin was still close from putting it on Jon. 

Jon had to physically restrain himself from kissing Martin right then and there. 

Martin patted Jon's arms, and stepped away. 

_Come back, I miss you._

“Well, I guess I’ll go back inside,” Martin said, smiling softly. 

Jon just nodded. _How can I beg you to stay and implore you to leave in the same breath?_

Martin went back in, and Jon ached for him like a missing rib. 

Martin was fairly certain he had fucked up. 

‘Fairly certain’ in this instance meaning… around 97% positive. 

He wasn’t sure how, though. Just that sometime after Peter’s piano was delivered, Jon stopped talking to him. He began avoiding him, and would step away if Martin accidentally entered his space. 

To be honest? It hurt. It hurt a lot. 

Not just because Martin was in love with Jon, and suddenly he was ignoring him. But Jon had been one of Martin’s closest friends, and now he was just… gone. He still saw Jon, of course, but their casual camaraderie had all but dissolved completely. 

It left a glaring emptiness in Martin; one that he struggled to find peace with, but never quite could. 

It came to a head when Martin sat down at the table in the break room, and Jon stood to leave, in spite of having over half of his lunch left over. 

“Jon,” Martin said, without having any idea of where he was going with it. 

Jon looked over at Martin, his eyes wide. 

“C-can you have a seat, please?” Martin asked quietly, and ordered himself not to cry. 

Jon wordlessly sat.

“Jon, could you just… Could you just tell me what I did wrong? So I can fix it, and we can be friends again?” he begged. 

Jon’s face became alarmed. “What?” he asked.

“I just-- Jon, I don’t know what I did wrong,” Martin said shakily. 

Jon grabbed his hand. “Nothing! You didn’t do anything wrong! Martin, I--” Jon caught himself off, and let out a frustrated breath. “I’m so sorry, Martin.”

Martin sniffled. 

“I’ve been… struggling with something, and I didn’t know how to deal with it. I never meant to push you away, Martin. You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said again, his expression softening. 

Martin swallowed thickly. 

“You’re… you’re my closest friend, Martin,” Jon said gently, looking down at their clasped hands. He squeezed Martin’s hand, and Martin smiled, and squeezed back. “Will you forgive me?” Jon asked, quietly.

Martin didn’t hesitate to nod. 

Jon grinned, and it was a private thing; just for Martin. 

That agitated thing in Martin’s chest settled, and eased in. 

They ate their lunch together in silence, every so often glancing back up at each other, and grinning to themselves. 

Jon had to get back to work after that, but he smiled softly at Martin and squeezed his hand one last time. Then he left. 

Martin watched him leave, and took a moment to be thankful that his friendship with Jon had not been ruined, and he had not fucked anything up. 

His gratitude was interrupted, however, by a phone call. Martin accepted. “Hello?”

The voice on the other end came through. “Martin Blackwood?”

“That’s me,” Martin said, as he walked out of the break room, and then out of the coffee shop. 

“Hi, this is Cindy from the Restful Oaks Care Facility, I’m afraid I have some bad news about your mother…”

**Author's Note:**

> Sooooo a few things:  
> 1) nearly cried writing this, cheers mate. 
> 
> 2) [Here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kwmw8spQpAA) is a cover of fever that was helpful when writing that part, it's very good
> 
> 3)Poetry is SO embarrassing. Like… THIS is the mortifying ordeal of being known. I have over 200 poems on my phone (of greatly varying quality) and I can definitively say. There is nothing more cringe than that. I’m gonna keep doing it tho, imma keep doing it. (also Everyone who writes poetry is valid)
> 
> 4) cannot even begin to tel you how pleased I am that I can legally tag this fic with Karl Marx. We live in a society. 
> 
> 5)Gymnopedie no.1 is like,,, arguably the most relaxing song on the planet, so highly recommend you have a listen! 
> 
> 6) Thanks to everyone who reads and comments, I appreciate it greatly! All of the supportive kudos and comments I've been getting is a large part of why I've been able to keep writing this so quickly. It genuinely means the world <333


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